Dr. Aikin, in the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, vol. iv. part 1, has ably and elegantly combated this reasoning-when two such gladiators enter on the campus, the spectators must keep an awful distance: Dr. A. contends that we experience a real delusion, but acknowledges that a violation of what are termed "the unities of time and place is perhaps the least injurious of any; for we find by experience," says he, "that the mind possesses the faculty of accommodating itself to sudden changes in these particulars." It appears to me that it is only real delusion which can authorise this violation. If the first scene of a play were laid in Athens, and the last in Sicily, the audience would be startled at so sudden and preternatural a removal, did not reason slumber, and imagination soar. We bow to the sway of fancy in some instances, why not in the present? under her wanton reign, vegetation luxuriates amid the cheerless snows of Lapland, and the beams of an Indian sun freeze the plains of Hindostan -hills and vallies, trees and lawns, "live in description, and look green in song."-A cold and wintery scene, painted on canvass, will chill us for a moment in the height of summer, and the well-told story of a ghost will people the 2 F VOL. IV. midnight shades with spectres, ghastly and fearful. It must be acknowledged, if the sanction of authority may be pleaded in favour of Schiller, that our own immortal Shakspeare will prove an eloquent advocate: our passions are appealed to by each of these two writers; and the youthful genius of both bounds, with scorn, over the contracted circle which the cold hand of art, with a presumptuous magic, has imperiously waved for its confinement. Taste will preserve the beauties of Schiller-whilst candour "will drop a tear over his faults, and blot them out for ever!" It would not be doing justice to the translator, were we not to acknowledge the spirit he has displayed and the energy he has exerted; some few inaccuracies may be discovered, but too iuconsiderable to be noticed. Let us hope, therefore, that the productions of a Schiller will not be confined to the forests of Bohemia, if the translator of "The Robbers" be in existence. THE CABINET, vol. i. p. 153. The following scene from this powerfully-written play, together with the attendant remarks, are taken from an essay in my "Literary Hours" on the Evening and Night Scenery of the Poets, as mingled or contrasted with pathetic emotion. The pangs of remorse and despair, as contrasted with the sublime and splendid repose of a setting sun, are no where so admirably drawn as in The Robbers of Schiller, a drama that does honour to Germany, and to modern genius. Moor, the principal character, and captain of a band of ferocious banditti, gifted by nature with every amiable, every generous propensity, is plunged into a state of absolute misanthropy and despair, through the villany of his nearest relatives. Thus situated, he embraces the idea of fatalism, and conceives himself destined to pour upon others the vengeance of an irritated God; he indulges, therefore, a gloomy and terrible delight in the execution of what he deems his dreadful mission; believing, however, that for the punishment of his own sins he is thus condemned to act a part that shall blast his name with infamy, and consign his soul to hell. From such a character the most excruciating remorse might be expected; and the art of the poet is in no portion of the piece more exquisitely displayed than in the following scene, where the employment of evening imagery will readily be acknowledged, by every critic, powerfully to heighten the effect. An engagement has just taken place between the Bohemian dragoons and the banditti, in which the latter proved victorious. "SCENE, THE BANKS OF THE DANUBE. "The Robbers stationed on a height, while their horses are grazing on the declivity below. "MOOR. I must rest here. (He throws himself on the ground.) My joints are shook asunder ;--my tongue cleaves to my mouth-dry as a potsherd-I would beg of some of you to fetch me a little water in the hollow of your hand from yonder brook, but you are all weary to death. (While he is speaking, Switzer goes out unperceived to fetch him some water.) "GRIMM. How glorious, how majestic, yonder setting sun. "MOOR. (Lost in contemplation.) 'Tis thus the hero falls;-'tis thus he dies,-in god-like majesty! "GRIMM. The sight affects you, sir.. "MOOR. When I was yet a boy,-a mere child,-it was my favourite thought, my wish to live like him! (Pointing to the sun.) Like him to die. (Suppressing his anguish.) "Twas an idle thought, a boy's conceit !— "GRIMM. It was so. "MOOR. (Pulling his hat over his eyes.) There was a time.-Leave me, my friends,-alone. "GRIMM. Moor! Moor! 'Sdeath! How his countenance changes! "RASMAN. Zounds! what is the matter with him?-Is he ill? "MOOR. There was a time, when I could not go to sleep,, if I had forgotten my prayers! "GRIMM. Have you lost your senses? What, yet a schoolboy! 'Twere fit indeed such thoughts should vex you! "MOOR. (Resting his head on Grimm's bosom.) Brother! Brother! "GRIMM. Come, come-be not a child, I beg it of you."MOOR. A child! Oh that I were a child once more! "GRIMM. Fy, fy! Cheer up that cloudy brow! look yonder, what a landscape! what a lovely evening! "MOOR. Ay, my friend! that scene so noble!-this world so beautiful! "GRIMM. Why, that's talking like a man. "MOOR. This earth so grand! "GRIMM. Well said! That's what I like! "MOOR. And I so hideous in this world of beauty-and I a monster on this magnificent earth-the prodigal son! "GRIMM. (Affectionately.) Moor! Moor! "MOOR. My innocence! O my innocence!-See how all nature expands at the sweet breath of spring.-O God! that this paradise-this heaven-should be a hell to me!When all is happiness-all in the sweet spirit of peace-the world one family-and its Father there above!-who is not my Father!-I alone the outcast-the prodigal son!-Of all the children of his mercy, I alone rejected. (Starting back with horror.) The companion of murderers-of viperous fiends-bound down, enchained to guilt and horror! "RASMAN. 'Tis inconceivable! I never saw him thus moved before. "MOOR. (With great emotion.) Oh! that I could re turn once more into the womb that bare me! that I hung an infant on the breast! that I were born a beggar-the meanest hind a peasant of the field! I would toil till the sweat of blood dropt from my brow, to purchase the luxury of one sound sleep, the rapture of a single tear! "GRIMM. (To the rest.) roxysm will soon be over. Peace, O peace!-the pa "MOOR. There was a time when I could weep with ease. O days of bliss!-Mansion of my fathers! O vales so green, so beautiful! scenes of my infant years, enjoyed by fond enthusiasm! will you no more return? no more exhale your sweets to cool this burning bosom!-Oh never, never shall they return-no more refresh this bosom with the breath of peace. They are gone! gone for ever.” * There cannot be a nobler subject for a picture than the preceding scene. The figure of Moor, agitated by remorse, yet characterised by a wild and terrible grandeur, surrounded by a set of banditti savage as the beasts of the desert, and who are stationed on a rugged cliff contemplating the beauty of the setting sun, and the landscape tinted by its beams; the Danube rolling at their feet, and their horses grazing on its verdant banks!-The pencil of Salvator Rosa could alone do justice to the conception of the poet.† * Schiller's Robbers, p. 72, edit, of 1795. |